Walking Past

I've walked past it for months

and never really looked.

Today I stop.

The red paint faded at the top,

rust creeping up like a slow leak,

a dog lifting its leg against it—

this is the most important thing

it will do all week.

The hydrant just sits there,

doing what it's meant to do,

not apologizing for being

red, ugly, useful.

The dog moves on.

The hydrant stays.

I keep walking too.